


At the Foot of Your Love

by ellevaire



Series: When the Sun Kicks Out [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bahorel has paternal instincts, Gen, Grantaire is a baby and Enjolras is sad, Joly has better ones, Kind of Pining!jolras, Petitaire, baby!R
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:32:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellevaire/pseuds/ellevaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has been mysteriously de-aged by an Act of Divine Interference, or whatever Courfeyrac is calling it now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Foot of Your Love

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for implied child abuse, where nothing is explicitly stated or described. (Based largely on sclez's Petitaire/headcanons from tumblr)

“JOOOLWAASSSS”

The cry is loud, and punctuated by a sharp sob, but not unexpected. The clock reads somewhere around three, but Enjolras’ glasses are somewhere at the bottom of his bed with his homework and he can’t be bothered to look for them right now.

He can’t even sigh as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and rakes his hair back into some semblance of order before crossing the hall and scooping up R over the three-foot baby gate blocking the entrance to the room Formerly Known As Courfeyrac’s. (His bottom isn’t wet, which is a relief, although it thankfully hasn’t really been a problem.)

“What is it, hmm?”

Instead of answering, Grantaire’s hands fly to the hood of his bright green onesie, pulling it over his head and burying his face in Enjolras’ shoulder. (“I’mma foggie!” he’d exclaimed when Joly brought it home for him, and promptly refused to take it off. Enjolras inexplicably and suddenly wants to cry.)

Enjolras gently steps over the baby gate, swaying back and forth with R on his hip as he carries the child back to bed.

“What’s wrong, R?” he asks again, flicking on the small lamp on the bookcase.

“Iss dark, hadda bad dream,” he says, snuffling into the thin material of Enjolras’ pajama top, and Enjolras is stricken with guilt because he’d meant to buy a nightlight and had gotten held up at office hours with a student who—and it doesn’t matter, that’s no excuse, R needs him.

“Do you want me to leave the light on?” Enjolras asks. He receives a tearful nod in return. “How about we try to go to sleep, hmm?”

He straightens the covers of the bed and pulls them back with one hand, cradling R in his other arm. Grantaire’s little arms are hooked around his neck, and he clings tightly when Enjolras tries to put him down.

“If I lay with you, will you try to go to sleep?”

Grantaire’s tears are subsiding as he nods, letting Enjolras settle him under the covers. Enjolras lays on top of the comforter, pulling Courfeyrac’s thick, soft, purple fleece blanket over his legs.

“Mumma says big boys aren’t fraid of dark,” Grantaire says, pulling the blanket under his chin.

“Oh? Are you afraid of the dark?”

“I’m just little,” Grantaire says sadly, eyes suspiciously shiny. Enjolras pulls him in close, until R’s small body is tucked along his side.

“You’re a tadpole,” he says, “Just a sprout, is all. And someday you’ll grow big and tall and strong.”

And pangs of sadness shoot through his chest, because he’d give anything for those words to be true.

“Like Bahwel?” R asks, blinking sleepily. Enjolras tries not to laugh. Bahorel is fucking huge; he’ll always have at least half a foot on Grantaire.

“Mhmm, like Bahorel,” he says, yawning. “Goodnight, R.”

“I love you ‘jolwas.”

“Love you too, little sprout.”

 

Enjolras jerks awake to Combeferre’s gentle hand on his shoulder. He’s at the very edge of the bed, Courfeyrac’s blanket wrapped around his torso. His first instinct is to ask what the hell is going on, but Combeferre presses a finger to his lips and quirks his head at the bed.

“It’s almost six,” he mouths at Enjolras, who sighs and turns his head.

R is curled up on his side in a tiny green ball, one hand fisted in the corner of the soft blanket twisted around Enjolras’ torso, the other near his cheek. His thumb is in his mouth, a spot of drool darkening the hot pink sheets below him.

Carefully, Enjolras detaches himself from the blanket, sliding out of bed as quietly as possible. He’s not sure how Combeferre managed to move the baby gate without waking either of them, but it’s now blocking the top of the stairs and thankfully, thankfully he can go back to sleep and salvage what’s left of his Saturday morning.

When he wakes up again, it’s because an unfamiliar weight rests on his chest and bright, bright blue eyes are peering into his.

He is then very enthusiastically greeted by a sloppy kiss that lands half on his cheek and half on his left eye.

“Wake up, ‘jolwas!” R shouts in his itty bitty voice, bunching his fists in Enjolras’ t-shirt.

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” Enjolras says, sitting up and delicately wiping at his eye with the back of his hand. He squints. It’s barely eight.

“Bweakfast?”

“Hmm, how about the potty first?” Enjolras says, reaching for his glasses.

Grantaire scampers off the bed and trots toward the bathroom as Enjolras wrangles his hair into submission.

R watches curiously as Enjolras brushes his teeth, standing on the sturdy cardboard box they’ve been using as a step stool, but then loses interest and pulls the hood of his pajamas up again.

“Wibbet!” he calls, jumping off the box. Enjolras spits. “Wibbet!”

“Let’s zip you up, little frog,” Enjolras says, kneeling to fix the zipper on the onesie as R stands still, tiny chest puffed out.

Surprisingly, he lets Enjolras carry him down the stairs and plop him in front of the coffee table, though not without dragging the soft purple blanket from Courfeyrac’s bed first. He sits contentedly enough, though, on the blanket with a coloring book while Enjolras gets breakfast started in the kitchen. Enjolras scrambles an egg, letting it cool while he scrambles two for himself and makes toast. The first time, he’d forgotten about the temperature thing, and well, he’s still feeling guilty about that.

He carries the two plates and a fork and a spoon (improvising, because they still don’t have forks small enough for a child under three) over to the coffee table, cradling juice boxes in the crook of his arm.

“Make room, please,” he says, and R pushes his crayons to the side.

Enjolras pokes the straws into the juice boxes and passes one over, wishing he could have his usual coffee. He’d tried that once, though, the first breakfast, and Grantaire had thrown a fit because he wanted a mug too, had wanted to be like Enjolras.

(And thank god Combeferre had been around for that one; Enjolras had left the room shaking because he _knows how this ends_ , and none of it is with Grantaire wanting to be like him.)

But for now he chatters happily between clumsy spoonfuls of egg and, well, at least something is going right so far.

Courfeyrac drifts into the living room, fully dressed, as R is mangling his toast, greeting them with a cheerful wave, in response to Grantaire’s cry of, “Coofrac!” and Enjolras is relieved that he’s at least not alone on babysitting duty anymore.

Enjolras helps Grantaire wash the bits of egg and toast crumbs from his chubby little fingers as Courf makes hot chocolate, then stands at the counter and gulps it down as quickly as humanly possible. He needs sugar, and also more coffee beans.

Courfeyrac sets his drained mug on the counter and drops to the floor in front of the coffee table. He quickly becomes absorbed in coloring, and Enjolras is content to watch from his seat at the breakfast bar.

“What do you want to do today, little frog?” Courfeyrac asks.

Grantaire turns away, hiding his face in the purple blanket.

“Hey, hey, don’t get bashful on me,” Courfeyrac says, tickling R’s sides gently until he’s squealing with laughter.

“Good moooooooorning,” says an airy voice, which echoes through the front hallway. Jehan appears a moment later, stepping lightly into the kitchen. His hair is loose and R immediately tries to crawl under his long skirt to escape Courfeyrac’s tickles.

He gets his head under until Jehan picks him up by his biceps, lifting him to eye level and planting a noisy smooch on R’s cheek while Courfeyrac sneaks up from behind for more tickles.

Enjolras smiles into his mug as Grantaire squeals and giggles, clinging to Jehan’s lumpy sweater and burying his face in Jehan’s dirty blond hair.

“E, I picked up some stuff,” Jehan says, holding onto R with one hand and digging a plastic bag out of what could only be described as a satchel. If you’re feeling generous, Enjolras thinks.

 “Thanks.”

“No problem. Bahorel said he was right behind, to help with the—you know,” Jehan says, gesturing loosely at the child in his arms.

“I’m here, I’m here, and I come bearing gifts,” Bahorel says, holding out a coffee carrier for Enjolras to grab while he kisses Jehan hello and gives Grantaire a high-five.

“Ready, Courf?” Jehan asks, lowering R to the floor and plucking his coffee from the paper tray.

“What are you two crazy kids doing today?” Bahorel asks.

“ _Someone_ needs help picking out a birthday present for another special someone,” Jehan says, and is promptly hushed and shuffled out the door by a frantic Courfeyrac with only the faintest of a rushed goodbye.

R totters after them in as fast of a run as he can manage, only to be very quickly caught by Bahorel.

“What are we doing today little man?” Bahorel asks.

Grantaire touches the dark, silky hair that hangs down the side of his head, beckoning him closer with one finger.

“Secret,” he says, touching their foreheads together.

“I’m listening.”

“Wibbet,” R whispers, and Enjolras can’t help it, but he bursts out laughing.

 “How about…bath time for the little frog prince?” Enjolras says, opening the bag Jehan had given him and pulling out baby shampoo. He gives it an uncertain look. Joly had done this, before, having snagged samples of baby shampoo from the clinic, but Enjolras figures having to bathe a de-aged friend isn’t a valid excuse to skip practicum. (It’s not.) So Joly was a train and a transfer away, taking care of other people’s kids, which left Enjolras with—

“Let me do it,” Bahorel says, taking the shampoo and grabbing a towel from the linen closet in the hallway.

“Are you sure?”

“I have two nieces and a nephew, I’m sure. Go take a shower. At least brush your hair. You look silly. Doesn’t he look silly?” Bahorel bounces R on his hip and leaves Enjolras standing in the living room, alone for the first time since, well, probably since this whole mess started.

Bahorel would take R for the day, if Enjolras asked him, but the way his chest clenches at the thought suggests this might not be the best idea. So far Grantaire has been utterly and inexplicably attached to Enjolras and what if something happened to him? What if he got hurt? What if he was kidnapped? What if he changed back?

Enjolras can think of worse things, but not many. He’s not taking risks with this, this is Grantaire’s _life._

He doesn’t want to fuck things up any more than they already are, he thinks, flicking the shower dial until the water is hot enough. Enjolras sinks to the floor of the tub as soon as he steps in, crouching in a ball and letting the water soak his hair. This is just— _so_ royally fucked up, this whole situation, this everything. He’s barely been able to deal with a suddenly and frighteningly de-aged Grantaire for three days; what if this lasts for three months? Or what if he has to grow up all over again?

And this sets off a fresh round of crushing panic, because what if he _does_ have to grow up again?

Enjolras could almost want that. He could almost want that because Grantaire’s parents are shitty parents, to say the least. Most average two-and-a-half-year-olds are not potty trained. (Enjolras was not potty trained until he was almost four, and he turned out perfectly fine, thank you very much. R, on the other hand, had had exactly one accident in his entire two-point-five days of renewed toddlerhood. It took Enjolras and Combeferre approximately twenty-four minutes to soothe him out of the ensuing meltdown and convince him his Dadda wasn’t there, Jesus, it was just an accident, it’s okay, and that was _after_ they’d had to find him hiding in the closet.)

He could almost want Grantaire to grow up, surrounded by people who will love the fuck out of him (and they do, his friends are spoiling him to excess in ways he won’t allow when he’s their size) but he misses that R.

It’s horrible and selfish and horrible, but he misses the arguing and the way he can sometimes get Grantaire to smile and the smell of paint and cigarettes even if it gives him a headache and how, when he hugs, it makes Enjolras feel dizzy but _okay_.

 

Enjolras washes his hair mostly so Bahorel won’t have something to laugh about, rinses, and towels off quickly. As he descends the stairs, there’s a pattering of feet on hardwood and then—

“I’m coming for you!”

A moment later, a very wet, very naked R crosses his field of vision and, Enjolras grabs him on instinct, holding the squirming child away from his body. Bahorel chases from behind, immediately swaddling R in a towel and causing him to shriek and squirm harder.

When Enjolras finally has a handle on him, R’s eyebrows knit together and he turns in Enjolras’ arms.

“Is Jolwas mad?”

Enjolras’ expression mirrors Grantaire’s, a frown of concern crossing his face.

“I’m not angry, Grantaire, why would I be angry?”

“Huts,” he says, burying his face in Enjolras’ shoulder. “Anger huts.”

It takes Enjolras a moment to realize he’s saying “hurts.” Enjolras has never been glad of a person’s death, but he thinks he might make an exception for R’s father. When he realizes his hands are clenched in the bunched fabric of the towel, he kisses Grantaire’s head.

“I’m not angry, I promise. I won’t let anything bad happen to you,” he says, because they both need to hear it. “Come on, let’s just get you dressed.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where I'm going with this so it's probably going to be nowhere. Title from Bloodbuzz Ohio, by The National. (And it's almost a pun...because R is at Enjolras's feet...because he is tiny...ha...)
> 
> Anyway, suggestions welcome because seriously, needs more Joly.


End file.
